I Wanna Hug You Like A Zebrafish

I think I'm getting sick.  If the two days of headache and the general pain weren't a giveaway, the sore throat this morning might have been a tip-off.  The cold isn't really helping anything, nor is the massive pile of work I find myself drowning under recently.  Not being able to think does not make any of this easier to deal with, and as a result, I find myself making the best of it regardless.

Zebrafish help.  To explain the title of this post, I have to explain something I ran across a couple of days ago about zebrafish.  In any case, apparently they can be depressed, or at least exhibit symptoms of depression.  And people (or animals, so it would appear) that are depressed make me want to give them hugs and make them feel better.

So I have been going around for the past two days, talking about wanting to hug zebrafish, because just about any mention of fish or animals or depression makes me think of zebrafish, and every time I think of zebrafish, I want to hug them!  As a result, I have had people offer to be replacements for zebrafish (although hopefully not depressed) and thoroughly available for hugs.

Perhaps it has been an entirely unproductive day or mostly lost in a fog of headache and pain and general fatigue.  All the same, it has been a fun day.  One spent full of conversations concerning zebrafish and hugs.  It has been nice.  And I don't seem to have very many such simple, sweet days.  But today was rather one of them.  It was a lovely change, and I'm glad it happened as it did.

Thank you to all who have made the day so enjoyable and I hope that the future is no less wonderful for all.

Ow...

Alright, I've had a splitting headache for pretty much, well, just about all of today.  It started out early in the morning and has continued through now.  As a result, I have not been in much of a mood at all to blog.  So here I am, shortly before going to bed, trying to figure out something with which to fill the space so I can get to bed sooner and make it hurt less.

Surprisingly enough, it hasn't been an entirely terrible day.  It has been difficult, certainly.  That's what happens when it feels like your head is going to fall apart.  But I've still been able to enjoy certain aspects of it and make the most of the day as a whole.  I'm not sure how that worked out or why, but then again...I'm not exactly complaining about that.

In any case, I'm going to go to bed shortly and hope that this goes away, because I still have plenty of work to do but its clear to me that it's not going to get done right now.  I think there was something else I was going to write, but I have no idea what it was anymore, so I'm not going to burden myself with that.  As a result, I am now off.  Apologies for the terrible post, but I need the rest.  Good night.

Anxiety

So I'm sitting here with my legs bouncing up and down at a ridiculous rate, wondering just what is going to happen in the future.  And part of me is still caught up in a panic.  An irrational one, I'll give it that, but something that is rather a pain to think about regardless.  Then again, at least I've calmed down from several hours ago when the panic was coupled with tears and legitimate freaking out.

But I've calmed down.  The pessimist in me was yelling that everything is going to go terribly and the world is going to fall apart and I will have 30 incurable diseases and die in horrible pain in five years.  Even though most of that has absolutely nothing to do with anything.  Regardless, I think I've finally managed to get my brain under control, the rational part has begun to reason it out and make sense of it.

And yet, no matter how calm, collected, satisfied my brain may be, it seems that my body cannot take into account.  This may in fact be screwing with me even more.  Regardless, I know that I will be fine in the end.  I know that I will be able to deal with whatever it is or isn't, I know that I will be fine.  The thing about being a neurotic is that everything becomes a point of panic.  I'm working at getting that under control.  I think I'll get there.  Eventually.

Forget

Be There

I will be there.  I promise.  When you want me to be, when you need me to be, and sometimes quite probably even when you don't.  And if you ask me how I can be so certain of this, I can only really say that I know.  I mean, I really know.  I learned sometime in the past couple of years that people mean more to me than just about anything else, sometimes even more than myself.

That's how I know.  I gave up a hell of a lot then, whether anybody was aware of it or not, and I would give up a hell of a lot more in the future.  Because people mean a lot to me.  In some cases, more than I will ever admit.  But that's how I know that I will be there, no matter what.  Maybe I can't be there in person, maybe I can't fix it, maybe I can't make the pain go away.  Regardless, I will be there in any way that I can, I will help with anything as far as it is possible.

Maybe that won't be enough.  Not enough for you, not enough for me, not enough to make it better.  But if you honestly think the possibility of that is going to stop me, you are so mistaken.  I've learned a lot about people and I've learned a lot about myself.  As a result, I've come to understand that I will always be there, no matter what does or doesn't happen.

That is one promise you can expect me to keep.  Maybe it's not necessary, maybe it's the one thing in the world that really is.  Regardless, it stands.  If you need anything, you'll know how to find me.  I will always be there to be found.

I promise.

Smile

I want to fall asleep in your arms at five in the afternoon, wrapped in your warmth and a soft blanket.  Then get up in the middle of the night and run outside in pajamas and run through the falling snow.  And when our fingers froze and our noses stung with frost, we would go in side and curl up again, holding each other and laughing about the night and the cold and the warmth and everything and nothing at all.

We'd fall asleep again in the early hours of the morning and sleep until noon.  The only thing to wake us would be the sun streaming through the cracks in the blinds, and we would open our eyes and lie together under the sheets for several hours more, just enjoying each other's presence, reveling in the warmth of a sunny morning indoors, with the cold winter leaving crystals on the windows outside.

You told me to write about things that made me smile.  It's simple really.  You make me smile.  Everything you do for me, every moment I spend with you.  All of it makes me so happy.  Certainly, there are other things in life that make me smile.  Like sunshine in the mornings and warm summer rain.  But all of those are better with you.  Everything I do, you make it better.

Things that make me smile are often simple.  They can be as simple as a smile or a pretty leaf on the ground as I'm on my way somewhere.  Sometimes the flame of a candle or a moving song can make my day.  It's not that hard to make me smile.  But you seem to have a particular knack for it.  So thank you for that.  Thank you for making me smile and giving me good reason to.

Restlessness

I'm tired.  I'm very tired.  And unlike usual, it is not from a lack of sleep.  Well, I assume that plays into it a bit too, but it's really not the primary cause.  Actually, I have spent most of the day doing next to nothing.  Or rather, being productive to an extent, but in the most boring of senses.  I've been lying around here and there, words flashing before my eyes all day.

While the rest is nice and much appreciated, I must admit, it is wearing on me.  Believe it or not, this is becoming boring.  And so, as a result, I want to curl up and sleep and not wake up for three days.  This would let me catch up on the sleep-debt and make some sense out of life and generally feel better...in all senses of the word.  But no, I know myself and I know that such rest is, alas, impossible for me.

I'm twitchy and unstable.  I want to do something, I want to move...but I have nothing to do and nowhere to go. So I lie here some more, while my body begins having issues adjusting to the temperature of my surroundings, and I wonder if I may not, in fact, have some deadly disease.  Realizing full well how unrealistic this is, my mind continues to paint vivid images of horrible maladies and most painful deaths.

Thus I remain, listlessly, only barely trying to stay awake, waiting for food to assuage the begging of my stomach for nourishment, and lazily ponder how pathetic I have truly become.  Because certainly, if I so desired, I could get up, and I could go places and I could do things.  But I know full well that I am not going to, so I once again resign myself to the oppressive warm of the room and the monotonous trickle of water, waiting for the hour after dinner to come, waiting to sleep once again and wake up another morning.

Questions

What do I write?  I make this an obligation for myself.  I force myself to sit down every day that I have access to a computer and internet and write.  I put down words that shape themselves just so and construct paragraphs to elucidate my meaning.  I throw emotions out upon the emotionless screen through the impassioned pressings of my fingers.  And more often than not, I have absolutely no idea what I want to say when I sit down before my computer for this daily ritual.

So I sit down with my hands on the keys and ask myself questions.

What can I say?
Am I going to tell a story?
Will I hide this or that?
Have I said this before?
Why do I feel like this?
Am I writing for anyone?
Did anything interesting happen?

And so on and so forth.  I try to figure out what I'm going to say and how I intend to say it.  I've mentioned before that I do not think or feel in words.  It is hard for me, thus, to put down thoughts and emotions in neat sentences and paragraphs.  But I make myself sit down and do it anyway.  In certain ways, posting on a blog is entirely an exercise in communication.  It teaches me to express the things I am not certain how to explain and enables me to lay down the inner workings of my mind in a rigid, definite construction.

In other ways, this is such a blank canvas.  It is a space for me to throw out all of my ideas.  There are many conceptions of my mind that never have touched and never will touch the pages upon pages of this blog.  That is fine by me.  The number of ideas that I have spilled out of my mind and through the keyboard is quite large in and of itself, and as such, I feel no need to put down everything in the form of a post.

Sometimes I write for others.  I write to thank them or tell them how I feel, whether they will read my writing or not.  Sometimes it is because I cannot say things and other times because it is on my mind and I want a clear record of it all for my future self.  Other times, I write for nobody.  I spew words and emotions at will, disregarding anyone who may come upon them, putting them down only to get them out of my system, only to free myself from haunting thoughts.

I have learned in over a year of blogging that some days are better than others.  Sometimes, posts are hard to write and other times they will just flow.  Through the hard times, I've made myself press onward, through the easier ones, I have allowed my fingers to tap away at will.  I have learned about myself and those around me, as well as about writing and communication.  Blogging has not made me a better writer, per se, but it has helped me come to understand any number of related and unrelated things.  Because of this, I am grateful to those who helped me make the decision to start a blog in the first place.  It has taken me to unexpected places and left a clear path for me to follow again.

Not A Good Start

This so-called break from life has not exactly started off particularly well.  On top of the fact that I am exhausted and wish I could hibernate for a week here, I am just about ready to murder something.  Especially since I left at four thirty and just got home right around nine pm.  I could have been back and happy by five, but no.  Of course not.  Because, you know, everything has to have something to make it suck.

So honestly, I really don't want to write right now.  My fingers still feel frozen, not that I was even outside for very long at all, and yet they're still too stiff for me to type properly.  I rather want to throw something very heavy through a wall and create a lovely dent, but I know altogether too well that that's not going to happen (rather unfortunately at that).

I'm sorry.  I'm not quite feeling myself right now.  We can just pretend that tonight didn't exist (yes, just about any of it from four thirty onward) and everything will be better.  I'm sorry for anything I said or did or ranted or blogged (or failed to).  It's been a rather miserable day and I'm not much in the mood to do anything except for bitch and whine.  My apologies.

Nightfall

It is almost eleven pm.  That leaves me with a little over an hour to fill up this desk and make sense of something, to write up an explanation or a description of me, the way I am, the way I feel.  I don't want to scream or shout.  "Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm."  I guess I could see that.  Considering where I was at a point yesterday and where I am now, the level of enthusiasm has dropped significantly in the space of twenty-four hours.

I'm better now.  Today had its very low points.  And it's also had a couple of high points.  It's been odd on the whole.  Nothing was excessively terrible about it at the start.  And yet it was just one of those that slowly seemed to worsen until it hurt, and even a hot shower couldn't help.  It happens sometimes.  But I've calmed down now.  Which is nice.

But now I'm in this oddly contemplative mood.  I'm sitting here sipping hot chocolate thinking about the duality of life, nature, emotions.  Of love and hate, joy and sorrow, ecstasy and agony.  It's thoroughly interesting to consider.  But anyhow, my computer has now decided that it hates me again.  So I will return to these musings later.  Good night. 

Happy

I feel better now.  Today has turned out the way I really needed it to.  Please don't worry about me.  I'm fine and happy.  I promise.  I just have moments of depression.  But I get better.  Like right now. 

Truth

What am I supposed to say?  Hell, what can I say?  Nothing.  Just simply that.  I can't put things down in words to explain them or express them in any way.  I can pretend that they don't bother me, that I don't know, that I'm alright, but who am I kidding?  Well, the rest of the world, for one thing.  I've given up on pretending that for myself, though.  In the end, I don't blog to tell pretty stories or talk about my life, I blog so that I can put down the truth and make myself understand.  Or at least try to, because I really don't understand.  I don't write things for anyone else, I write them for myself. 

People are going to read this and people are going to ask me questions, and I don't know if I can answer any of them.  Because this post isn't something I want to talk about, it's not something I'm writing for people to learn about me or for me to discuss with them.  I'm writing this for myself.  This past week has dragged me back into the past, pulled me back to last year, and it seems to keep forcing me harder and harder until I can't resist anymore.  That makes this hurt.  I've started writing longer posts again, more vague and obscure ones, more incomprehensible things that I don't want inquired after.  I'm falling back into the patterns I was in then and feeling some of the same tensions I had experienced at that time.

One year ago today (oh the irony), I wrote Regression.  And it's odd, because now, sitting here as I am, the  most fitting word to describe my condition would be one and the same.  There is so much for me to scream at the world, so many emotions I want to shout.  I'm not crying, which is perhaps progress, but I am in approximately the same mental state I was then, only for entirely different reasons.  Because despite all of this, everything that has happened around me, I still feel as though I am living a lie, as though this isn't mine, as though it's only a grand illusion I have created and really things aren't any different in my life than they were a year ago.

This isn't a post for today.  It's more appropriately a post for tomorrow.  More appropriately still, it is a post for one week from now.  This is something I should not be putting down into words, generally, but if I have to, god knows it shouldn't be today that I do.  And yet it is, here I am, typing.  And all the while, I'm thinking, this is going to be a stupid thing to post today, I should just leave it and not post it until tomorrow, or better yet, not post at all.  But that's not happening.  I know myself well enough to understand that this is in fact something I am going to finish writing, after which I will hit the "Publish Post" button and wait for the consequences to mess everything up. 

It's not that I don't care.  I care.  I care one hell of a lot about this, especially right now.  I care what happens as a result of these words, and I know it's not going to be pretty.  But hell, I'm writing more about the consequences of this post than the post itself.  I'm trying to avoid putting to words everything that I want to say.  Because I am firmly of the belief that somethings really are better off not known.  I likewise know just how much things bother me when they shouldn't and how much it hurts when I let it all affect me to that extent.  These are thoughts that have been going back and forth in my mind for a while now; this isn't anything new.  This is just me finding words suitable to match what is in my head, or approaching that, at least. 

This is me trying.  This is me attempting to work out my issues.  The problem here is that I'm doing it all in the wrong place.  I know what the outcome is going to be of writing this post, I know that the words will come out of me...and in part, I'm writing this because I want that to happen, even though I really, really don't.  This would have worked a year ago...the cryptic post that nobody would ask about, which would let me put everything down and let it go.  But now, it's going to start something and something is going to escalate and I'm afraid of where it might go.  Regardless, I'm going to write one paragraph now that will effectively be the entire purpose of this post, because the following words are all that I meant to say:

I feel as though I am in the same place I was last year.  The sensation that none of this is mine and all of it is just a lie is overpowering.  It is as though I am a temporary convenience in this game, and that ultimately, I don't matter, I mean nothing, I am worth nothing.  So yes, this does go back to self-worth issues.  But it also deals with how much anyone really cares.  And that hurts, because I find myself doubting things I hate to doubt.  Yet here I am, doubting.

That is all.  To those who wonder: it isn't as bad as it seems.  I have gotten better from last year, I have made progress and this doesn't hurt as much as it did then.  Don't take this as an indication of anger on my part or failure on yours.  It is merely my emotional instability taking advantage of me when I am most alone.  I'm deeply, sincerely sorry if this hurt in the least, it wasn't meant to.  However, it did accomplish what I had intended for it to do--I feel better now.  I put my thoughts down and so dealt with them.  I am happier than I was when I started writing this (signficantly so).  I am alright.  Everything is fine.  I promise.

Morning

I figure I might as well write right now.  I went to bed at three last night (or rather, this morning) and woke up at seven, then couldn't fall back asleep.  Since then, the one even remotely productive thing I've done has been taking a shower.  And I don't know that that counts as anything even remotely productive.  In fact, I rather doubt it does.  So I'm just going to do at least something worthwhile and write.

Why does it always have to be weekends that I wake up early and can't sleep in?  I got four hours of sleep, damn it.  I would have very much appreciated either not waking up or at the very least being able to fall back asleep.  But no, apparently I don't have that kind of luck.  So here I am, wondering how exhausted and unproductive I'm going to be today and waiting to go grab some brunch.

I've really got nothing to say, nothing to write.  I don't much have the desire to be sitting here spilling thoughts out into a box.  But I'm doing it anyway, because I should...or something like that.  I don't know.  I'm tired, I'm sorry.  I can't think particularly straight, nor can I say that I really want to at this particular moment in time.  So instead, I'm letting my fingers flow over the keyboard and put letters down that turn into words which combine into sentences as time goes by.

It's interesting how I can tell precisely what mood I'm in by the way I type.  I've had those days when I pound on the keyboard and flood the page with aggression, and then I've had those when I'll tap gently at each key, selecting the most perfect letters to most precisely express what I want to say (I haven't had many of those lately, truth be told).  And then there are days like today, where my typing is fast and fluid and I wonder why the hell it never works out like this on those days when I have things to say, when I could craft something interesting or wonderful out of my typings, why it has to be days like this when I'm throwing empty thoughts onto a page, thoughts that nobody needs to see and nobody will care about even if they do.

The thing with being tired is that my restraint of myself is lessened.  I let myself get away with saying things I otherwise wouldn't.  But I don't have much of that sort to say today anyhow, so perhaps it is a pity that of all days, today was the day when I got only four hours of sleep.  I'm really jealous of those who know how to sleep in, who are capable of going to bed at five am and waking up at one pm.  Alas, I get to deal with myself the way I am.  I hope this is a thoroughly pleasant day for anyone who reads this and all others too, of course. 

Write

Why does it hurt?  I don't know exactly what it even is anymore, but I just know that it does.  Perhaps I'm looking back too much, perhaps I'm trying to see too far forward.  But it hurts.  And I don't know what to do about it because I can't say anything about it.  I can't even write about most of it.  Winter is hard.  Winter brings me back to some of the worst times I have put myself through.

One year ago, I remember where I was.  Four days after that, I know what happens and I still have the marks to prove it.  Why would I want to prove it?  I don't know.  I doubt I would, to anyone else, at least.  But no, that may have been because of someone, but it was never, ever, ever for anyone but myself.  I'd say I've been through hell and back, but that would be a lie.  I have put myself through hell, and that would perhaps approach the truth.

This brings me back to where I was then.  Everything was different.  I was different.  I don't want to go back to that.  But somehow, inexplicably, I feel as though a part of me is being drawn.  Maybe I have spent the past few weeks barely going a day without crying over one thing or another or anything else.  But that's not it.  I haven't broken.  And I am of the sort who needs to break. 

I need to break not only to feel whole, but to be whole.  I need to know that I can still put myself back together.  I haven't done that lately.  I haven't been able to.  I haven't been afforded the opportunity.  I hate knowing that, I hate being brought back to that point in my life, I hate realizing how much I hurt then and how much it makes me want to hurt now.

From a rational perspective, I don't want to hurt.  But some irrational, incomprehensible, entirely bitter part of me needs to hurt.  So here's some news...I'm still broken.  I'm better, I have been getting better, and things have hurt less.  But I am still not whole.  There are still pieces of me that I don't know how to put together, and one of those is digging into me right now.  So right now, I need to break.  I feel like I'm trying to find a way to do it no matter how much I don't want to. 

So instead of letting myself go, instead of breaking myself because I need to and I know I can, I'm writing.  I'm frantically pressing down on keys, hoping more than anything else that I won't drive myself back to where I was then.  It feels unreal to me that I am writing this.  It's hard to believe that this is true.  I don't know how I feel this or why.  I just know that I am still broken, and I want to fix it, and I don't know how.

All I can do is take a deep breath and let it pass.  It will be alright.  Eventually. 

Her

I once wrote something titled this same way.  I wrote about her and said things that nobody else would ever know.  Indeed, to this day, nobody has yet read that page.  I doubt that anybody ever will.  I've written a few blog posts about her already, so if you know me really damn well and have particularly good intuition, you might be able to understand.  But this one isn't about her.  This post is about someone else, someone I have in fact also written a couple of posts about, but in far from the same context, expressing far from the same things.  From here forward, "her" refers to one individual, and not the one I wrote about a year and a half ago, for those to whom this makes any sense.

I am curious.  This is a commonly known fact by now, among those who are my closest friends.  One may go so far as to say that I am obsessive and creepy.  If nothing else, this compulsion toward inquiry is thoroughly well manifested in the inspiration for this blog.  I want to know her.  I want to know who she is and who she was.  Part of me would prefer the latter, to come to understand what set her aside then, why she played the role she did, how she was where she was in her life.

To an extent, I feel bad about this.  I, who from years of experience and bitterness have learned not to dwell on the past, seeking to understand it more than I do the present.  But that's not all that influences the desire to know more of her in the present.  I want to know who she is, I want to know the role she plays in this world. I want to know everything and anything about her, her thoughts, her feelings, who she is and why she is so.  

I've never so much as met her.  I've never exchanged words with her in real life or even in real time.  And the sum total of words we have exchanged at all probably numbers under a hundred.  So why is it that I want to know so badly?  Because even though I've never interacted with her directly, she has changed in so many ways the course of my life.  And anyone who has that much influence on me, directly or otherwise, is going to take up a significant portion of my mind, is going to lead me to excessive curiosity and perhaps even extraordinarily creepy mannerisms.

I wonder what I'm trying to get out of this.  Because at the same time as I am curious, I don't have anything to say to her.  I don't know that I have any more words to exchange.  I'm more curious as to what she could say of me, what she thinks of me...but that's a ridiculous curiosity and an entirely irrational desire to know.  And yet, this is how I am curious.  I am writing now because I found these thoughts running through my mind.  I wanted to put them down, to put into words what could be clearly articulated and made sense of in letters on a contrasting background.

Part of me wants her to read this.  Part of me fears that possible outcome, knowing full well the chances.  I don't know what more to say.  I don't know what I'm looking for.  I just know that this was in my mind and something compelled me to write.  So here I am, writing.  I learned a while back now that things don't always go well, in fact they often don't.  Words often mean things we don't want them to or are perceived in ways that we had hoped could be avoided.  But it happens.  And on the whole, I've learned that there are risks that have no severely negative consequences for me, that cannot break me or shatter me, that can lead to interesting things or may fizzle out and fall flat.

This is one of those.  I don't know what I hope to gain, if anything, by writing this.  I've repeated this several times already and I'm going to say it again: I don't know why I'm writing this, except that I felt compelled to, I wanted to.  So here I am, typing these thoughts out, preparing to post them and see if anything comes of this.  If something does, wonderful.  If not, I am no worse off than I was before.  This blog has always been about my true and honest thoughts.  Right now, this is it--the fragments of curiosity running through my mind and melding into words and phrases.  Enjoy, perhaps?  If not, then my apologies.

Almost

It's almost enough.  You almost got there.  You almost made it.  Almost.

"Almost is an accomplishment," they'll say, "it set you out from everyone else because you got a step further than they did."  But almost doesn't matter.  You can't take credit for almost.  Almost doesn't really mean much of anything to anyone at all.  It's nice padding, it can give a polite sense of comfort, it may be useful as emotional support.  As far as actual value though, almost carries absolutely no worth at all.

Almost means something only to those for whom it would not matter if it was almost or definitely or not quite or not even close.  Almost bears weight and significance among those for whom there is no need for such.  It impresses those who do not seek nor need to be impressed.  Where it matters, almost is worthless.  Almost does not mean a thing.

Almost is quite that--almost.  It is not enough.  It will not get you anywhere and it will not save you.  It may serve as the greatest source of progress and encouragement, or as a downright indication of absolute failure.  Which it is does not matter, for it can just as easily be either or both.  Almost enough is not enough.  It does not count.  Because where it fell short, it wouldn't have mattered if it had almost made it or if it had been off the mark by eternities.

Almost, then, is that commonplace beast that we come across so often in our search for the most elusive of creatures--accomplishment.  We spend hours of our lives searching, and all we get sometimes is this god-forsaken almost, that which allures us yet can do us no good.  Pity that, perhaps.

Unspoken

These are the words that may or may not ever escape the brain, get past the vocal cords, leave on the breath escaping the mouth at a given time.  They may be said once or merely thought and agonized over for long tracts of time, never more.  If they do get expressed, they get vocalized but once, and such is the life span of these words.  They are doomed to never be repeated, never restated, never explained.

And yet what characterizes them most of all, perhaps, is the inability to forget them.  Each phrase is one that will be built up and torn down again and again until it reaches a state as nearly approaching perfection as is reasonably possible for a human construct to be.  It is vocalized again and again in one's brain until the heart races and the breath refuses to come.  Sometimes the words are choked out eventually, other times they never reach the surface.  They are never as perfect as one would like them to be.  They hardly ever carry the desired tone or anticipated power.

Once heard, they are likewise never abandoned.  Every word, every tone, each minute pause and flicker of the eye is scrutinized.  The phrases haunt and linger, weaving infinite tendrils of questions and confusion into the mind.  But these are the things of which one does not ask questions.  Here these things are not brought to trial or mention.  They are left to lie.  Never forgotten, always ignored.

Sometimes, maybe an eternity later, they re-emerge, after the dust has settled and the smoke has cleared, they are finally brought to the surface.  Once it no longer matters, there is no fear or insecurity involved in bringing them to light.  So they are analyzed piece by piece again, running from both perspectives, as the knot is untangled and understanding revealed, perspectives exchanged, and ideas made sense of after it no longer makes the least difference anywhere at all.

Survival

The most difficult thing right now is just getting by.  It's not hard to be happy, nor to work hard.  It's not knowing that bothers me most.  Not knowing what's going to happen or how long until something either falls apart or messes up or I find myself lost.  I'm in a really good mood.  Certainly, I'm tired, I have a lot of work, and there's a good bit of stress weighing on me right now.

But I'm in a good mood.  I'm happy.  It's been a lovely night.  And by lovely I mean truly lovely.  I had fun.  It's really hard to avoid dreading things sometimes.  This place, generally, I think, is what weighs on me a lot of the time.  It's exhausting and terrifying sometimes.  This probably doesn't make any sense, I don't much care right now, I'm just writing right now.

My mind is elsewhere, honestly.  I'm thinking about other things.  I am reflecting on the way my night has been, the way tomorrow will be, how I will survive the rest of the week, what will happen over the weekend.  I've always been caught up in such things.  I think about the past and the future much more than I think of the present.  It's easier for me because the present is fleeting and only really there for a moment.

The past and the future--one got us where we are and the other takes us where we're going.  That occupies my thought process quite often.  It's interesting to me, it's easier to focus on those which seem to matter more.  Sometimes I forget the present.  Tonight was not one of those nights until recently.  They usually get back there later in time.  But tonight was throughly enjoyable.  I got to forget the things that usually cause me to worry.  And that was nice.  I'm glad of that.

So thank you for that.  Thank you for letting me get past it and forget sometimes.

I Watched

I watched her dying.  I saw her slowly but steadily killing herself.  She was tearing herself to shreds with anything she could.  Every word was a reason to dig deeper.  Every blade was cause for another cut.  She covered her arms in scars and buried the metal in her skin further and further with each passing day.  I saw her arms too tender to touch, I saw the tissue pressed to fresh wounds to stop the flow of blood, I was her tears, her words, her agonies, written on her arms and in her eyes.

I won't lie.  There were days when I wished death upon her.  Anything that would have lessened the pain she went through that drove her to the desperate ends she hit.  I wish I didn't mean it, but there were times when it would have been easier to watch her die than writhe in agony.  But I couldn't tell her that, I couldn't declare it to the world.  Hell, I could barely admit it to myself, because to wish for death like that, to want to see someone take her life.

Yes, it was selfish.  It was bitter and miserable, and I wanted her to die because it hurt me too much to see her suffer.  I excused it with every selfless reason I could, I told myself that it was because I wanted to see her no longer in pain.  But I am human and selfish and pathetic, so I wanted it because of me, because it hurt me, because I wanted it to bring less pain to me.  So yes, I am in fact a terrible person.

And I can't set this off or argue that it was a matter of circumstance or  misery or pain.  I watched her dying and I wished for her to die so that it wouldn't hurt.  Wouldn't hurt me?  Wouldn't hurt her?  Both, perhaps?  those were bitter months.  I tried to get away from everything and anything then.  I didn't want to think about anything, when her death was the only thing that could penetrate my mind.

So what happened?  What came out of it?  She didn't die, not then at least.  I still talk to her.  She never knew what went through my mind during those months, she didn't know how much it hurt me.  Maybe she never will.  But what happens from here, I cannot know.  We will see.

Angst

To anyone who reads this and cares to tell me, I'll pose a question now:

Why do you read this blog?

This isn't rhetorical, this isn't just there to make you think.  Anyone who has ever read this, I want to know why you read it, or why you still do, or what made you read so much as these first few sentences.  So please, answer me.  Tell me in a comment (you can do it anonymously if you so desire), send me an email, tell me in person.  Just let me know why you read this.

I've had over 1600 page-views in the past five months that blogger has been keeping track of blog stats, and I want to know why I got as many as I did (well, ignoring the fact that half of those were easily mine).  Is it mostly people who know me and whom I told to read my blog?  Or is it people who happened to run across it and found my life interesting (I wish).  

Part of my curiosity in this matter is the sort of blog-reader I personally am.  I think I mentioned this in my first post, but I will reiterate it here: I love blogs.  People I know very well, people I don't know at all, people whose names I can match up to faces but don't actually know at all, anybody.  I will find some blogs and I will check them pretty much obsessively.  A couple of my friends use blogger too, and they have asked me, "so all of those little spikes in my stats every day...was that you?"  Yes, yes it was.

So I guess, knowing myself and my fascination with blogs, I want to know if anyone else shares this fascination, or if people read this because they know me, or if they read it because it pertains to them, or if they read it because watching someone's bitterness and angst makes them feel better about their own life.  I don't much care what the reason is, I just want to know.  So please, do me a favor and answer the question, in one way or another.

Now What?

That question scares me.

I feel like if I don't have an answer, then I'm failing something, messing it all up again.  I don't have an answer.  I don't know what sort of an answer is fitting.  The best I have is: now life continues as it has, through highs and lows, despite problems that come up, working through things and not letting minutia tear anything apart.  But inherently, that question seems to be asking for an answer that reflects change or an alteration in life.  I don't want to alter anything.  I'm not hurt right now as I write this, I'm just scared and confused because I have no desire to change things, but that question seems to be asking me to.

Except for maybe one thing.  But I don't exactly mean that in any tangible way that could be understood.  Before most of the people who read this blog now knew me particularly well, or knew that it existed, I wrote the post 24 Hours.  I didn't write it out of guilt, although god knows I felt it and still do, particularly now.  I wrote it because...I'm not entirely certain why, but I felt that I had to.  I needed to get that thought out of my head and into words, I needed to explain that particular sentiment that even I don't fully understand even now.

I hate that.  I hate that no matter what anyone says or does, I'm still going to feel like this is my fault.  That someone else's pain was caused because of me.  And you can spend hours telling me that it was situational and that it would have happened and any number of things.  But in part, I hate myself for the fact that it wasn't my heart that was broken in that span of time.

It's not easy to guilt me into things.  Guilt has never plagued me overmuch.  And I can't say that it's overwhelming even here.  But this bothers me and it hurts.  Because I've been there, and I've done that, and I would so much rather it was me.  Maybe a broken heart is what made me the mildly masochistic individual I am today.  Heartbreak is something I've come to live with and appreciate, and that makes it hurt less...but seeing it in others, or not even seeing it but knowing it, perhaps made worse by the fact that I can't see it, can't do anything about it...that makes me feel guilty.

I'm not saying in any way that I wish this hadn't happened.  I'm not saying that I'm not happy with how it turned out.  But it hurts to see how my happiness can hurt people I never even knew in ways that I have come to understand and would do anything to fix.  I don't regret any of it.  I wouldn't have changed what happened or what turned out.  I just wish that it wouldn't have hurt anyone as much as it has.  I'm sorry.

I'll Be Fine

Alright, I'll admit it.  I'm blatantly stealing ideas for this post.  But that's okay, I don't really mind.  It's something I should say anyway, so I might as well do it while it's on my mind.  The basic gist can be summarized in one sentence:

Yes, I will be fine, but I don't want to be.

I don't want to be fine then.  I've worked hard getting to the point where I know I will be, and god knows I've been preparing for that since before it all began.  But when it does happen, I don't want to be fine.  I want to shatter and break and come crashing down.  Maybe I still want it as an excuse, or maybe it's merely a matter of the significance and not wanting it to feel like nothing in the end.

I just don't want to be okay then.

It's simple, really.  I know that.  I've known that since I began writing this post and maybe even a little bit before.  It's selfish, because I feel that it is my right to not feel fine.  It is my right to fall apart when it happens and not be okay and come back crying and whining and suffering.  Most of me hates that concept, finds it conceited and ridiculous.  But there is still that bit that longs for it as merely an excuse to be upset, and that bothers me.

Curiosity is a bitch.  It makes me want to know things I shouldn't know and understand things that may not be made for me to understand.  But that doesn't discourage me in any way.  I know that even writing this is a passive-aggressive approach toward finding things out, as with most blog posts.  People's questions and reactions allow me a window into their thoughts and feelings, their personal world, which I normally would not be a part of.

So even with that, despite the selfishness of it all, I want to know things.  I want to know what would have happened if I had hung up.  I want to know where I would stand if I had said no or moved away.  I want to know what sort of person I would be had I not known every word of that.  Thus I do the only decent thing I can--I sit here, looking at the world revealed to me and wonder, and try to make sense of it all, and hope to understand any of it.

Bruises

Bruises sting.  They don't sting in the same way that bites or other injuries sting though.  Physically, they don't sting at all.  It's just a dull pain whenever that part of the body moves.  But emotionally, bruises are, to me, among the most painful of injuries.  They ache long after anything causes injury, and they remain for a while as blatant markers on the skin of things that had come to pass.

Same person.  Same bruise.  Two different places.  Two different times.  Then it was my cheek, because I had been slammed against a wall.  And I didn't say anything, because then it wasn't my place.  I knew that, so I shut my mouth, fought back the tears, and went on with life as normal, avoiding touching that cheek because it was this constant stinging reminder of what had happened.

Then the leg.  I still don't fully understand how that happened, although I understand entirely too well why.  But this time it was my place to say something.  And I did.  This is where I am as a result, wondering if it wouldn't have been better for me to just shut my goddamn mouth for once and let it go.  My place?  What the hell is that supposed to mean?  It wasn't my place to complain about something that was my fault.  I know why that happened, and I've got the bruise to remind me.  My stupid mistake, my stupid bruise to pay for it.

Bruises seem to sting more for me than for other people, at least when caused this way.  But maybe that's because of something that happened a year and a half ago that I still have a hard time letting go of most of the time.  That's why bruises sting.  I never really remembered the pain of that completely, and they are the closest reminder I can get to something that I can't understand concretely.  That's why this hurts so much.  That's why I wanted to cry.  I'm working on it.  I hope I'm getting better.

Over

I'm afraid that I was right.  I'm afraid that without meaning to, without intending to, without even having that the least bit in mind when I wrote that, I inadvertently said something that was entirely too true.  So be it then, it is what it is.  More than anything else, I want to curl up and disappear and not have to crawl out or think for the next week.

And then it would be fine.  It would be better.  I would have forgotten everything and anything and it wouldn't bother me anymore so I'd be fine and this would be fine and none of that would matter.  But it's not fine and I'm not fine and I'm past the point of really caring anymore.  I'm sorry.  I hate knowing that, but it's true.  It happens sometimes, and that's when I do the worst things.  Those shock me back to reality and make me capable of thinking again, but that doesn't justify or explain them.

It hurts.  That's all my mind can consciously register and that's all that matters in the least to me right now.  I just don't care.  I know that given enough time, I will.  But right now I don't.  I'm sorry.  I wish I did.  And if I tried hard enough, I could make myself care, but the fundamental problem with that is that I don't care enough to start trying.  It's not particularly complicated, and I could fix it if I wanted to.  But I just don't care.  I'm sorry.

Breaking Bread

Breaking bread with someone is one of those phrases you sometimes hear and find a little odd.  I've heard it used in the context of making peace.  So when you break bread with someone, you either agree to overlook past disagreements to become friends or you simply begin a friendship anew.  In this way, it has a positive connotation--one of peace and sharing.  But that's not what this post is about.  It's mostly about breaking, and only a little bit of it has anything to do with bread.

I finally realized two nights ago that we're over.  Yes, you, who has clung to me since the beginning when I actually needed you more because you're extroverted and make friends.  I followed you then, I went where you did, spent time with the people you liked, and tried to make the same friends you did.  That's how I ended up with the friends I have now, in large part because I followed you there.  But somewhere in there, I found myself and people I liked, and I didn't need you anymore.  We remained friends because I appreciated your company every once in a while and I was more than happy to help.

You needed me.  In a way, you still do.  I think I'm one of the few who have actually listed to all of your nonsense, your foolish ramblings and unreasonable demands, without giving you hell for it.  I've never discouraged you and I've been there when you needed me.  I was there for you like any friend would be.  And that one night last year when I ran into your bedroom crying and you were on the phone so I walked out to give you your space...I don't hold that against you.

Then there was the night where I was crying in my own abode, and you bounced in (and I do in fact mean bounced) and asked if I had bread.  I know I've written about this before, but I'm going to write it again.  Because there were tears streaming down my face, my hair was in disarray and I was falling to pieces, and you didn't even notice.  You were supposed to be my friend, you were supposed to be there for me.  I would hope you would have noticed my crying over worrying about whether or not I could give you bread.  I guess I was wrong.

But even then, I didn't walk away from you.  I didn't try to get away from you.  I remained friends, even when you did stupid things and complained needlessly.  I was still there for you.  But two nights ago, I finally realized that I don't care anymore.  For once, I almost told you off, and if you had said one more thing, I promise you, I would have.  I didn't.  I'm fairly glad of that because I don't like saying such things to people, whether or not they are my friends.

We are over.  I won't avoid you, I won't refuse to speak to you, I won't treat you any differently than I did before.  But now I see what I didn't then--that you don't know how to really value me for everything I've done for you.  I'll still be there when you need me.  But I won't seek you out for anything.  I'll try to help when I can.  But don't expect me to go out of my way for you anymore.  I'm really sorry it turned out like this, but you messed it up for us and that's all there is to it.  I wish you the best in life, but may you lead a path that keeps you a safe distance from mine.

Long Night

It's almost eleven pm.  That leaves me with just about an hour to write a post.  I have plenty of things to say.  I almost wrote two posts already today.  So why didn't I?  Because they would both have hurt.  They would have hurt me and they would have hurt others and the one thing I didn't want to do today was cause more hurt.  And then I went and did it anyway.

I know, I'm tactless and foolish and irresponsible and uncontrollable.  I make no sense and too many unreasonable demands.  I cry over nothing then scoff at the most painful of things.  I can't explain it.  It's just the stupid way I am, and I wish I could change it more often than not.  But I can't.  So somehow I find myself saying the wrong things, doing the wrong things, and generally making a mess of anything and everything that comes before me.

Then I clean it up because I realized that I made a mess and that I didn't mean it and that god only knows how much of an idiot I am to keep shattering things like this.  So yes, this is another depressed and angst-laden post.  I'm sorry.  It's just not in me to write anything else right now.  Maybe tomorrow will be better.  Maybe it won't.  I'll see.

Verbatim

"I intend for all of my writing to be honest, true, uncensored. Maybe that's really what I'm trying to find in all of this--the truth. Either way, I think I'm in for one hell of a ride."

November 8, 2009.  One year ago today, I started this blog, with a post that still has one of my favorite post titles ever, Verbal Nudity.  How well have I kept to those initial intentions?  I don't really know.  I seem to be saying that phrase a lot more often in my writing now, though.  At least I'm being honest about it now?  Or perhaps the reason I say that more is because I hypothesize less as to what the answers may be.  I really wish I could make this post special somehow, but I don't think that's going to happen...I figure it'll mostly be an analysis of my life and my writing from a year ago to now.

Has my writing style changed?  I think it might have.  Maybe it is, maybe it isn't, but it seems to me that the writing is less artistic and more blunt.  To me, it sounds more like I am fulfilling a need than crafting a work of art.  Is that bad?  Not necessarily.  The function of this blog has changed in a way.  It went from a place for me to sort out my beliefs to a collection of thoughts I need to get out of my head.  Some things have remained the same though, because I have more questions than answers in most things I write.  That and, to an extent, most of the things I write are either inspired by or written to a particular individual...the same one, really.

But that gets into how my own life has changed.  Well, I can say one thing for certain...I'm still in love, still with the same person.  It took me until two weeks after this date last year to connect the emotion to the word, but it was there the whole time, and I can see it when I look back on it.  Sure, the circumstances have changed, and reading closely into posts I've written, the story could probably be pieced together quite nicely and thoroughly.  After all, for half a year, this blog was mainly an outlet for my angst about unrequited love.

Things really have changed.  I look at things differently.  Some things are better, some are worse.  It comes and goes, life changes, and these 365 days worth of posts have given me one of the best ways possible to look back at the past year, to understand the ups and downs I've been through in the past 12 months.  Looking back is...strange.  It always is though.  Sometimes I wonder whether or not I'll ever read all or even most of these posts again.  I really would like to, at some point at least.  But considering that I already have over 400 posts and the number is only going to keep increasing (considering that I do in fact intend to keep writing and do not plan on deleting anything), I doubt I will ever be able to find the time to do it.  It's still nice to know that I have the option available if I do in fact go back to read them.

So what happens now?  After one year of writing...where am I going to go with the rest of this?  I don't really know.  I'm going to keep posting, that I know.  I'm going to do it every day, still.  But beyond that, I don't know.  I'll let it go where it does.  What better way to maintain this than by letting it take the course it chooses?  So I guess we'll see.  Anyhow, happy one-year blog-anniversary!  I hope it's been worth something to anyone who chose to read.  

Cracked

I need to write something.  Anything.  I need to get this out.  And I don't know how.  I have no idea what words to type or which ideas to express.  I don't even know what this even is.  I just know that something isn't right and I feel dreadful because of it.  I don't know what more to say.  I just don't know.  I guess this could be a one-line post, then...simply "I don't know."  That would be sufficient for my thoughts today.

But no, it's not quite that simple.  I feel pathetic and inadequate and incapable and stupid.  What is perhaps worse in this respect is that I know it all to be entirely my own fault.  How I got here I know, what I did to cast myself down into this hole I can recite with perfect clarity and no difficulty whatsoever.  So why am I still here then?  Why have I not dug myself out?  The simple answer to that is "because I am pathetic."  That covers it quite well, because that's pretty much how I feel right now.

To explain it in further detail, I'd have to explain how behind I am on work and how I don't know how to get anything done anymore and how I don't even know how I got into this ridiculous mess except that I do because it was my own fault and I saw it all coming from a thousand miles away.   I have to wonder how much of this is actually even worth anything.  Sure it has its moments.  But on the flip side, do I feel better now or do I feel worse than I did then?  I feel better...but I still feel worse, just in different ways.

Sometimes I still miss that.  I miss hurting by myself.  I miss the individual agony that was only felt by myself.  Is it selfish?  Certainly.  I never denied that, I never much wanted to.  And I'll be perfectly honest.  There are days when this wears on me more heavily than anything else.  There are days when I just want to curl up completely alone, completely separated from the rest of the world, and just spend time with me.  Sometimes I want to be found in those moments, occasionally even saved, other times I don't.  I can't generalize this.  I can't simplify it down to a simple paragraph or even an entire post no matter how long that may be.

But this is what I had in mind when I started writing this post.  It feels like something fundamental is falling to bits.  Like the foundation is slowly cracking and I can feel it moving but can't stop it no matter how hard I try. Or did I give up on trying?  Maybe I did, after all.  Maybe that's why it's all stopped working--because I've stopped putting effort in.  I don't remember how to motivate myself anymore.  Will it get better?  Maybe.  Will I ever get where I should have been looking at the person I was three years ago?  I don't think so.  I had my problems then and I have my problems now and they're completely different.  But that person would have gone further by now than I ever will.

I know that and it hurts.  They all told me I had so much potential.  That was always my strength--potential, coupled with hard work, and people believed that I could do anything.  I wasn't just told this as a child because it was the proper thing to say, I was told this because it was true.  I was one of those rare individuals with a work ethic and an underlying desire to know.  That would have taken me oh so far.  But somewhere in the past few years, the motivation to move forward was replaced with a die-hard will to merely survive at the basic necessary level and the potential went to waste because the depression sapped my desire to work.

So where does that leave me?  It leaves me precisely where I see myself now, with a cracking foundation and a will lost completely long ago to despair.  Is it a biochemical imbalance or a mental failure on a personal level?  I doubt I'll ever know the answer to that question.  But I wonder, I wonder often and never know.  Here I sit then, wondering at questions I will never endeavor to answer, seeking insights that I don't care enough to pursue.  That's what my life has been to reduced to.

Yes, I am pathetic.  It is, after all, only my fault that I don't accomplish anything and that I don't push myself to do more.  That leaves me in this particular position, of breaking only within the sanctuary of my mind and of spilling the shattered pieces of my life into the apathetic internet, not caring whether or not these concerns are ever read.  I don't remember how to really put in effort and then I wonder why I mess everything up...

Solitude

I don't know what to say anymore.  The power of words has escaped me.  The capacity to think, no less, has likewise made its exit from the scene.  And I wonder if there's even any reason why I still am where I currently am.  I have a feeling it's entirely a matter of habit.  It's easy to maintain something when it is familiar and comfortable and altogether simple.

Maybe that's what I'm doing here, with this blog.  I'm just rambling on, filling in pages, putting down empty words that no longer mean anything because it's easier to do that than let it go.  The last post (before this one, I mean) was number 400.  That's right.  I've written four hundred posts, from that two-liner to images with text to various rambling entities consisting of poorly-expressed emotion and barely-restrained impulses.

So even though everything is holding together quite well, I can't help but feel as though it's all steadily falling apart.  Maybe I'm just not used to this much stability, or perhaps it's a matter of entropy perpetually taking the world along its course, but it seems too quiet, too peaceful, too still to last.  And I don't know what to do with it.  It's frustrating.

I mean, really.  When's the last time I wrote a really good post?  Not just one that put down emotions or told a story, or related information about me or life or anyone or anything.  When was the last time I wrote something that really meant something, that mattered, that dug into the soul and made it yearn?  I know I've written that way before, I might even be able to find a couple of posts among the 400 that express that.

But now?  It's been ages since I've really done anything that powerful.  And for no good reason at all, I feel like I'm sitting in this sphere of myself, trying to pretend the world doesn't exist for any reason or no reason at all.  I'm not in a bad mood at all, but I just want to forget.  I want it all to no longer matter.  I want to remember why it was I became this person in the first place.  Then again, I say that as though I know who that person actually is or was, and that in itself is dubious.

I want to change something in this blog.  I want to add a new page...but I don't know what I'd write there.  I want to change the design...but I don't know what I'd put in place of this.  Maybe that's what it all comes down to.  I'm restless.  I want change.  I want something, anything, to happen, I'm willing to do something...but I just don't know what.  For those who know me, I'm open to ideas on such things, as always, so if you have something, just let me know, I'll be glad to hear it.

Many Apologies

I must apologize once again.  I was going to post twice yesterday, and had fully intended to do so later in the day.  But I felt ill and had work to do and was much too exhausted to write more.  Hell, I still do feel ill.  Or rather, I did when I started this post...five hours ago.  I think I'm feeling a little bit better now.  Maybe.  However temporary this may be.  At least I'm able to move now?

Anyhow, I don't think that second post is coming for quite a while...give it another week until my life rearranges itself and I manage to sort some things out.  But otherwise, I'm going to apologize right now for the utter nonsense that will probably dominate my writing for the next couple of days at least.  While a certain level of panic is resolved, I feel rather unwell and there is still work weighing me down.

On the whole though, things seem to be going fairly well.  I'm in pain but calm.  Even though I'm swamped with nonsense and work and responsibilities and obligations and such, I still feel like I have a sense of control here.  It feels like things are going to work out.  Or if they're not, then at least I have a certain blind faith in the fact that I'll be alright with them regardless.  That's a nice bit of assurance right about now.

Oh Hey, I Can Post Now

So apparently Blogger is actually working this morning.  I apologize sincerely for last night, but I couldn't actually type body text last night, which was frustrating (hence the title-only two-line post of last night).  I guess I should actually say things this time around though.  I owe myself, my blog, and generally my audience this much right now, presumably.  Here goes nothing...or rather what I was going to post yesterday.

Two years.  Two years ago today (yesterday?).  It depends how you count the days or what you consider to matter.  In my mind, I still see it more as November 4, 2008 that changed everything.  Or maybe it didn't actually change anything.  No, that's utter nonsense.  It changed a hell of a lot and I know that.  Hell, it got me where I am today.  If it wasn't for that night, that kiss, I wouldn't be the person I am today.

That changed things.  Just about everything about me has changed in the past two years.  They say that every seven years, every skin cell of your body is replaced.  So every seven years, you are an entirely different person, if only physically.  Maybe I haven't changed all of my skin in the past two years, maybe for the most part, I'm physically the same person.  But in every other way, I have changed entirely.

I have rebuilt myself, my character, my personality entirely--more than once--over this span of time.  Who I was that day two years ago would bitterly despise the person I am today.  In a way, that's frightening.  But at the same time, it offers a certain comfort.  It means that I am still changing, still evolving, maybe it's for the better, maybe for the worse, but at least it is changing.

"This too shall pass."  I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.  But what I do know is that it isn't permanent.  That there is always hope for something else to happen, to change.  Certain things I would love to keep the same forever.  But on the whole, at least I know that things will not stay the same forever, that they will change, that something new may will happen in the future.  That there is the origin of hope.  Maybe that's what keeps us alive, keeps us living, moving toward something, anything...just so long as our lives are still changing.

So Blogger doesn't want to let me post...my apologies. I guess I'll have to have two posts tomorrow to make up for it?

Scar Tissue

Yes, the song.  No, not actually, but that's the first (well, maybe second) thing that came to mind after the phrase did.  But anyhow.  That is entirely irrelevant to anything and everything.  So what is relevant?  What even matters anymore?  Does anything?  I've always been one to doubt that.  I digress.

Scar tissue.  It is thicker than the surrounding tissue.  The fibers line up in one direction and the skin covers the wound.  And yet, thicker though it may be, scar tissue is weaker than the rest of the body.  It is easier to damage it, to cut into it, to get deeper into the body and cause greater and greater pain.  So Nietzsche was very much wrong when it came to pain.  "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."  That's nonsense.  It leaves scars, it weakens you.

Life does that.  It hacks away at you until there is nothing left of your original self, until you have lost all of what you were and replaced it with scar tissue.  Then you become weak and fragile.  Then you're left like me.  I don't know that there is any of me left.  Sometimes it feels like all that's left is this cavernous body stuffed full of scar tissue.  All of the meshing that characterizes health, the tissues that were once the symbols of youth turning into the marks of damage and despair.

Is there anything left but scars?  Maybe.  Maybe deep down within me there is still something that hasn't yet been torn to shreds and reformed as an organized mass of tissue.  Maybe there's still something that could learn to grow and function and fix what is broken.  Scars don't exactly work that way, physical ones, at least. But maybe the ones I bear do.  Maybe all of the emotional entanglements characteristic of humanity that have been broken in me and regrown as scars, in one simple, beautifully painful direction, can be regrown, can be caused to tangle afresh and maintain a certain solidity that I haven't had in a bit.

But in any case, I feel better now.  The scars are there.  Maybe they will heal, maybe they won't.  That remains to be seen.  All I know for certain is that if there is any way for the scar tissue to be replaced by health, I am in the one situation that could get me there.

And last but not least, by request:
*smile*

Thank You

I've had this open for most of the day now, easily 12 hours.  I've fully intended to post and numerous points during that time, but (clearly) haven't gotten around to it until now.  But I guess things have evened out in a way that is actually conducive to writing for once (believe it or not).  I don't know what exactly I want to say or how to say any of it, but I might as well start somewhere, so I guess that would be here and now.

I don't know what set me off.  What started me hurting.  Maybe it was finally getting just enough sleep where things could really start bothering me without being hindered by a fog.  Or maybe it was any number of small things all coming together at once.  Whatever it was, it happened, and the whole day got off on a bad foot, so to speak.  I was frustrated and irritated.  I don't know why, I don't know about what.  All I know is that something somewhere bothered me just enough to set off my nerves and make me upset.

And me being the particularly volatile individual I am, I took that and it spiraled out of control.  First one mildly displeasing thing and then another would collide with this aura of dissatisfaction, magnifying it, causing everything to just get a little bit worse.  Until there I was, writing in other languages "why not?" and meaning it in every worst sense of that phrase.  I don't know why today of all days, I don't know how it came up in my mind.  But it hurt.  It really hurt, and there I was, writing in red ink, wanting more than anything else to not know the answer to that question.

It wasn't really a question to me anyhow.  I was desperate enough though, so I asked.  I asked it of myself and of the world and of anything that would give me an answer.  Even though I didn't need an answer handed to me...I'd known it the whole time.  And then I cracked and broke and collapsed.  And my world fell apart.  And it seemed as though perhaps I was approaching the end...not the one that I had theorized, and yet one that would have led to a suitable apocalypse nonetheless.

Something changed then.  It wasn't me, I don't think.  I still easily spent three hours today crying.  Nothing was fixed, nothing was solved, and there are still questions that remain unanswered that perhaps should have been pursued at the time.  But either way, something clicked.  Everything shifted and things finally started going right.  Sure, it took some time.  It took considerable time and quite a few tears, actually, to finally get there.  Maybe a couple of lies, or perhaps not lies so much as wishes, I'm not sure, but things that certainly didn't seem true.

It worked out.  I don't know how.  I don't know how thoroughly.  I'm fairly certain there are still gaps there that need to be filled and fixed and adjusted and made sense of.  But for the most part, it's definitely better than it was earlier.  So I'm glad of that.  Also, I'm exhausted.  I apologize if this didn't make sense.  I know for a fact it didn't do the situation, emotions, occurrences justice.  But I can't write any more right now.  I'm exhausted.  So I think I'm going to go collapse into bed now and sleep curled around a pillow.  I'll end this how it deserves to be ended, though:

Thank you.  Thank you so much for everything.  Even the things that you don't think matter, really do.  Thank you for being there and doing all of that, and holding me together when I'm not much good at it myself.